


Sandman: Starscream

by HSBacklash01



Series: Sandman [1]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-05 01:05:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3099281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HSBacklash01/pseuds/HSBacklash01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's said dreams are the subconscious, sorting and filing...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sandman: Starscream

**Author's Note:**

> In cleaning out my files, boxes and binders, I ran across this drabble..enjoy.
> 
> And yes, I do still indulge in Funions and Dr. Pepper. Where do you think my stories come from? >: P 
> 
> Disclaimer: This isn't my fault. Blame Wayward, Ladjet, Artemis, and Ikharus (was finally able to catch up on some reading).  
> Okay, maybe the Funions...and the 12-pack of Dr. Pepper...ooh, never before bed again. And yes, I did have to include all the lyrics to 'Modern Major General'; to do otherwise would be an injustice!

The deer-like creature slowly approached the figure lying on its side in the field. Tilting its head and pawing the grass, it carefully sniffed. Jerking, the animal backed away and retreated into the tree line. The figure stirred and coughed, then was still. 

Tremblingly pushing against the ground it sat upright, opened bleary, hazel-green eyes. They took in the surroundings, a bewildered expression mounting on the narrow face. "Why is everything..." it began. The eyes suddenly grew wider and the head lurched down. "No...nonono. Not again. What am I, Primus’ farking chew toy?!" 

Cautiously standing, he took in the human body wearing gray jeans, a red and blue t-shirt and boots. Something swept across his face, and he held out a bit of the black hair. Swallowing hard, he bared his teeth in rage despite the tears tracing a path toward his chin. Clenching fists, he screamed at the sky, "Why do you hate me? This isn't fair! Why am I this way again? Why?" 

His voice fractured as he sobbed and crumpled to the ground once more, a fist hammering the grass, "...why...why..."

After a few minutes he righted himself and scrubbed at his face with the heel of a hand. He hiccuped and laughed bitterly, “If I die and go to the Pit, it would just be redundant." Plucking distractedly at the grass, he stared at nothing and sighed deeply. He was grateful no one was around to witness the sorry mess sitting in the grass crying, of all things. 

Standing, he dusted off grass and dirt from himself and noticed the bundle behind him. He picked up what was a long, black coat and a rucksack. "Is this your sick idea of a joke?" he glared at the gray and purple clouds filling the sky. "Will you explain the slagging point of this?" he shrieked, kicking at the ground. Thunder sounded from the distance as if in answer and rain began bending the field. "Oh, yes! Of course it's going to start raining! Why not!" 

Shrugging on the coat and shouldering the bag, he stomped dejectedly toward the tree line, pausing momentarily to glare at the sky again. "Wonderful. Now not only am I grounded and human, I'm wet," he remonstrated, the wind picking up and plastering already-soaked hair more firmly to his head.

~~~~~**~~~~~

He stared down at the tent he'd made with the coat, then up. He still had some climbing to do. "It would...be...easier...if I...could fly...” he mumbled to no one. Even alone, he still spoke out loud. Inferring that he might be on Earth, he'd set about reaching the top of one of the trees for a better view. Forty-five minutes later, he was only half-way to his destination. 

His back still itched unbearably. It was a deep, annoying, burning planted between his shoulder blades, and his relentless scratching was making it worse. He paused on his ascent and sat on a branch. All he could make out through the screen of leaves were more trees. "I'm beginning to hate the color green." A loud crack made his stomach drop; he lunged for another limb without thought. His perch hurtled to the forest floor, startling the things he'd come to relate to as rabbits. 

Hanging there, the bark cutting into his palms, he waited for his heart to slow down. "This is ridiculous...” he spat at what closely resembled a blue jay. The bird chattered at him, and then flew away. Hanging his head, he hauled himself up and stared after it. "At least you can," he mumbled. 

Nothing, he gasped. The wave of green extended far before him, the field behind. As far as he knew, there was no one here save himself. "Hellloo!" he called, a breeze swaying the top of the tree. He silently mouthed a word, rolled his eyes, and yelled something in another language. He cringed at the sound of it, then called again. Moving in a circle, he strained for any reply, but there was none. 

He watched the sun setting in the distance, orange and red streaking the deepening sky. Smiling faintly, he started his descent.

~~~~~**~~~~~

He nauseously hung up the now-headless rabbit-thing from a low branch with a boot lace. Who - or what - ever had judged it necessary to place him here had been kind enough to supply a knife, a large canteen filled with water, and a small book in the rucksack. The book was a curiosity, the pages seemingly of paper, yet untearable. It contained colored pictures of plants, animals, and directions for different things, only no writing. The one item his host had neglected was food.

He presumed that three days had passed, if the rising and setting of the sun were a day here. He had been able to ignore his stomach until now. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, the book lying in front of him, he looked up distastefully at the furred creature loping a few yards away. "I have to catch it? And, do that?" he gagged, pointing at the illustration on the current page. It's either that or starve. Which do you prefer? A small mess, followed by dinner, or becoming part of the scenery? something stated plainly in his head.  
Grimacing, he drew the knife from its sheath, unscrewed the bottom of the handle. He pulled out a wire with a ring on each end and a rod of grayish-silver metal. Replacing the cap, he hefted the knife and flung it at a nearby tree. The tip embedded itself and vibrated slightly. Getting up, he went to the target, wedged the blade free and steadied himself. Turning, he noiselessly approached the subject of the illustration. "I do apologize, but it's you or me. And I don't favor this being my resting place."

~~~~~**~~~~~

The itching had at least quieted; now the places on either side of his backbone were raw, sore, and raised in long welts. Did something bite me? he wondered. He stood on his toes in the shallows near the bank of the river, nose above the water line. Pushing off, he took three deep breaths and dove down. There wasn't much to do besides climb the omnipresent trees. Concentrating, he relaxed and felt his heart slow. Almost like flying... He could make out the bottom, the sun glinting off the rocks. Spiraling around, he faced the surface. The first time he'd tried this, he had learned very quickly to hold his breath, that humans couldn't breathe water. Six days. How many more until this farce is concluded? 

Traveling steadily, he had reached the banks of the sluggish river a day ago. Having become more adept at it, he quickly scaled a tree and saw a shimmer in the distance. An ocean? A lake? Desert? It was difficult to tell, and the object was at least three days' walking. Reaching the ground again, he hesitated and looked at himself, then the river. He was looking the worse for wear. And smelling it. Shrugging, he sat down and pulled off a boot, wrinkling his nose and holding the sock-clad foot away. 

After overcoming the shock of the water temperature, he wrung out the clothes drifting nearby and tossed them onto the rocks. Floating, he watched the clouds and started singing to himself, an song that he knew was irritating, enjoying it partly because of this:

I am the very model of a modern Major-General, I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral,  
I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical, From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical;  
I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters mathematical, I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical,  
About binomial theorem I'm teeming with a lot o' news, With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse. 

I'm very good at integral and differential calculus; know the scientific names of beings animalculous:  
In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral, I am the very model of a modern Major-General.

I know our mythic history, King Arthur's and Sir Caradoc's; I answer hard acrostics, I've a pretty taste for paradox,  
I quote in elegiacs all the crimes of Heliogabalus, In conics I can floor peculiarities parabolous;  
I can tell undoubted Raphaels from Gerard Dows and Zoffanies, I know the croaking chorus from the Frogs of Aristophanes!  
Then I can hum a fugue of which I've heard the music's din afore, And whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense Pinafore. 

Then I can write a washing bill in Babylonic cuneiform, And tell you ev'ry detail of Caractacus's uniform:  
In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral, I am the very model of a modern Major-General. 

In fact, when I know what is meant by "mamelon" and "ravelin", When I can tell at sight a Mauser rifle from a javelin,  
When such affairs as sorties and surprises I'm more wary at, And when I know precisely what is meant by "commissariat",  
When I have learnt what progress has been made in modern gunnery, When I know more of tactics than a novice in a nunnery- -  
In short, when I've a smattering of elemental strategy, You'll say a better Major-General has never sat a gee. 

For my military knowledge, though I'm plucky and adventury, Has only been brought down to the beginning of the century;  
But still, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral, I am the very model of a modern Major-General. 

~~~~~**~~~~~

Something was jerking at his hair. Prying an eye open, a smear of blue and white appeared in front of him. Squinting, he looked again and saw the blue jay that had been following him since he almost fell from the tree. "Isn't there an insect population somewhere you should be decimating?" he rasped. His head throbbed steadily, matching the dull ache of his neck and shoulders. The blue jay reproached, snagged a lock of hair again and pulled. "Ow! What? Go away!" He swatted at the bird. It hopped out of range, tilted its head, then flew off to watch from a tree.

"Consider yourself lucky I can't reach you," he pointed at it. The blue jay danced from side to side on its branch, scolding and chirping. Rolling over, he stared up to guess what time it was, and sensed something beneath him. In two seconds, a logic puzzle went through his mind: The ground is hard. Whatever I'm lying on is soft. Therefore, I'm lying on something that's between myself and the ground. Forgetting about the headache, he pitched up and forward, grabbing the tent-coat. Spinning around, he held it in front of himself like a matador. 

Where he had been was empty. The jay chirped, and he shushed it. Feeling a stroke against his neck, he shot a hand out, grasped, and yanked forward. The muscles between his shoulders cramped and spasmed, pain roaring up his neck and down his back. He shrieked, felt his legs go out. He crouched down, gritting his teeth, waiting for his back to unknot itself. Finally he was able to rise. Reaching around again, he turned his head to see white and red feathers. Letting the coat slide from his hand, he perceived the same thing next to his other shoulder.

Stumbling to the river, he strained to see his reflection. Filling the image behind him were large wings, sticking out from slits in his shirt, stretching to slightly past his knees. Numbly, he sat down on a boulder, staring blankly ahead. He heard air being displaced, felt a tiny weight on his leg, but didn't move. The blue jay looked at him, jumped up to rest on his shoulder. Both were still there as the sun began to set.

~~~~~**~~~~~

Plunging down, he sighed and tucked sweaty hair behind his ears. The shimmering object he had seen from the height of the tree had turned out to be a small lake. Rolling numb shoulders, he smirked at the creature landing on his head. "Must you do that?" he barked at the blue jay. It fell to land on a shoulder, chirping. "Same to you. It isn't my fault you can't keep up." While not what he was used to, he could fly again. His traveling companion had seemed delighted, darting back and forth in front of him as they sped inches over the treetops.

He'd felt conspicuous and embarrassed figuring out how to use the wings. Testing how they were attached and how to move them, he had been unable to keep himself from ginning like an idiot when he first lifted from the ground. The jay had raced around from tree to tree, calling and sporadically dive-bombing him. "Quit it!" he had laughed. 

Needles dug into his shoulder; the jay scolded and unfurled its wings. "Hey! Let go, stop!" The bird dashed to a tree, his head, returning to the tree. "What the slag is wrong with you?" He watched the agitated blue and white streak. A reverberation made the hair on his neck stand up, the sound growing sonorous until he could feel it. He could hear the blue jay above it, exclaiming from the trees. He had heard the sound two days ago. However, he now wanted nothing to do with it, dread rising.

He had been hunting around, with some help from a feathered friend, for the bushes shown in the book. Following the bird, he froze. He heard engines...something was flying over, something big. He sprinted toward the river clearing to hopefully see it. Skidding to a halt, he cast an eye over the clouds. It was too large to just simply disappear that quickly... His face tumbled when there was nothing there...

The blue jay chattered at him as he crept toward the trees. Squinting up, he could still see nothing, the rumble now a roar. Turning to see where the bird was, he felt his stomach knot: the jay was beckoning him to follow with a wing. An idea slinked into his mind, so twisted he tried to shake it away. The hazel-green eyes narrowed, turned toward the sky again, a snarl materializing on his face.

"Do you think these make a difference?" he screamed above the roar filling his head, unfolding his wings. "It doesn't! Nothing will make me accept this! Nothing! I want to be the way I was! The way I was!" He shielded his ears to stop the noise but couldn't drown it out. The landscape reeled, a wave of dizziness taking him down. He saw a blue and white smear land before him, then nothing.

~~~~~**~~~~~

He sat up quickly in the dark, felt cool metal beneath him. Shifting his feet down, he stared at the metallic decking of the floor, ceiling, and walls. A desk was across the room, shelves beside it. He inspected himself and the room, night vision overlaying everything green. Slowly standing, he went to the small, round window and gazed out, smiling in relief. Facing the room again, a glint from the desk drew him to it.

He picked up the knife, acknowledging it was the same one, somehow large enough for him to still use. Alongside it were two photographs. As he studied them, a knock sounded at the door, alarming him. "Hey, Star, you okay?" a voice questioned.

He stopped, replied, "Yes; why wouldn't I be?"

"Heard you yell."

"I dropped something."

"Oh. Okay. Just wondering." The knock came again, and footsteps retreated.

Returning to the pictures, he leaned against the desk, supporting himself. In the reddish glow of his optics, he stared at the image of a young man with shoulder-length black hair wearing a long coat, a blue and white bird resting on his head. The second photo was of the same person, standing in a tree, white and red wings adorning his back.


End file.
